Chapter One
December 1869
Richmond, Virginia
The rain continued to pound on the roof and against the few remaining glass window panes in the Collins House on Clary Street. Inside, the members of the Richmond Ladies Sewing Circle shivered in front of the meager fire, the tips of their fingers numb with cold as they protruded from the open ends of their knitted gloves. Several women muttered beneath their breath as they wielded the sharp needles against the hated blue wool of army uniforms.
Faith Collins shifted in her uncomfortable chair and turned her head from side to side, stretching the stiff muscles and tendons in her neck. She laid her sewing aside and got up to empty three of the larger pans scattered around the parlor floor collecting the rain that poured through the roof of the battered house.
Faith hated emptying the pots and pans. It was a boring, repetitious chore and to Faith, a complete waste of time. The floor was already damaged by fire and rain. A few more drops wouldn’t make much difference. And the sound of the water pinging against the empty metal grated on her nerves. It reminded Faith of gunfire and death and everything she’d lost.
But her ladies insisted on using pans to catch the water and Faith grudgingly obliged. She was fighting a losing battle with the inclement weather and the roof. She had been fighting the battle for years. Her own private war.
The firing of the arsenal during the retreat had been responsible for the majority of the damage to her home, and the repairs she’d been able to manage since the end of the war had not included a new roof.
It was hard enough to keep food on the table, clothes on their backs, and shoes on their feet. She might have managed on her own, but Faith had to feed and clothe the other members of the household who made up the roster of the Richmond Ladies Sewing Circle.
The weather was the least of her worries. It was uncontrollable. Faith was concerned with the basics—food, shelter and clothing. Those were the primary topics of interest on this cold, rainy afternoon.
“Faith, you really shouldn’t lift that heavy pan that way. You’ll strain your back.”
Faith looked up at her aunt, Virtuous May Hamilton Jessup. “Yes, ma’am, I know that, Aunt Virt, but…” She shrugged resignedly, knowing help would not be forthcoming from that direction.
Virtuous Jessup, with her still-black hair and deep blue eyes, would have been a handsome woman, if she could have stopped thinking about the past and finding fault with everything and everybody. Aunt Virt would never let them forget all they’d had and all they’d lost.
“I would be happy to help you, Faith, dear, but you know I have lumbago in my lower back. I’ve had it ever since my son, Will, was born. I nearly died giving birth to that boy. He was supposed to take care of me in my old age and what did he do except get himself killed on a dreary battlefield in the wilderness?” Aunt Virt probably would have continued to rattle on about her woes if Aunt Tempy hadn’t entered the parlor and interrupted the oft-told tale of her sister’s ruined life.
“Here, let me help you with that, Faith.” Aunt Tempy helped Faith carry a heavy enameled chamber pot to the wooden cistern.
The house had been so heavily damaged that the upper floor was unsafe and off limits to the household. Faith, her aunts, Virt and Tempy, Mrs. Everett and Mrs. Colson, who were sisters -in-law to Aunt Virt, and Faith’s sister, Joy, occupied the first floor of the house, living in the front parlor, back parlor, library, dining room, and office. They did the cooking in the dining room on a cast-iron stove Faith had purchased secondhand.
Faith smiled at Aunt Tempy. “This would be so much easier if we just pushed the cistern into the parlor and opened the lid. Most of the rain would fall into it.”
Temperance Hamilton laughed aloud. She was completely different in looks and character from her older sister, Virt. Petite, and red-haired, Tempy was always ready with a smile, a helping hand, or a shoulder to cry on. Faith didn’t know what she would do without her. “I tried to tell you this barrel wouldn’t blend with the style of the room.”
“What style?” Faith glanced around at the bare walls and floors. The once magnificent dining room was unfurnished except for the stove, a rough pine table and benches, a broken cherry sideboard, three wooden crates, a battered copper tub for bathing and the oak barrel.
“I’m glad Mama and Papa didn’t live to see this,” Faith said softly.
Even the huge crystal chandelier was gone, a victim of looters. The scavengers had used it for target practice, then cut the support rope and allowed the gilded frame and the remaining crystal prisms to crash to the floor.
“I don’t know,” Aunt Tempy teased to lighten the mood. “I’ll bet that chandelier was the devil to clean. At least, that’s one less thing to worry about.”
“I suppose you’re right, Aunt Tempy,” Faith agreed. “We have enough to worry about without that. What with the roof and the price of everything going up except what we get paid for sewing and our property taxes due next month. I just don’t know where to turn. We’ll never be able to earn enough money to pay for everything.”
“We’ll manage.”
“But the taxes are due at the end of next month,” Faith said.
“What about the bank?” Mrs. Everett asked. “Have you tried to take money out of the bank? That’s what my dear late husband used to do.”
Faith looked at Mrs. Everett. She hadn’t realized the others were listening so closely.
“Agnes,” Aunt Virt scolded her sister-in-law, “you always were such a featherbrain. Even I understand that in order to get money out of the bank, you must first put money in it, and that’s just what we can’t do.”
Faith rubbed at her temples, trying to blot out the angry voices.
Couldn’t they see it did no good to argue?
The squabbling between Aunt Virt and her sisters-in-law was a constant source of irritation to Faith. She needed help and guidance, not quarrels and accusations.
“And why not?” Agnes Everett asked indignantly, “We can put all our sewing money together and open an account at the bank, then we tell the banker how much we need for the roof and the taxes and all, and we just draw it out.”
“I wish it were that simple, Mrs. Everett,” Faith said with a sigh, “but it isn’t. Our earnings from sewing amount to sixty-eight dollars and thirty-two cents, and that includes Joy’s ten dollar gold piece. The roof alone will cost more than that. A banker would be out of his mind to lend us money on the basis of sixty-eight dollars and thirty-two cents.”
“Can’t we use the house and land as collateral?” Aunt Tempy asked, “I seem to remember Papa using the farm as collateral to get the money to build the new barn and stables.”
“We could try, Aunt Tempy, but I wouldn’t want to do that unless we had no other choice. The carpetbaggers are eager to snatch up land, and if we can’t pay back the loan, we’ll lose the house and the land.”
“If we don’t pay the taxes, we’ll lose the house and the land,” Aunt Tempy pointed out.
“I know,” Faith said miserably. “What we need is a miracle.” Faith sat back down in her chair and picked up her sewing.
“What we need,” Aunt Virt said bluntly, “is a man.”
“A man?” Faith murmured, perplexed. “Another mouth to feed?”
“No, a man. A husband. A provider. Someone to shoulder the burden,” Aunt Virt elaborated. “Someone to get us out of this mess. Someone who knows how to go about things. A husband.”
“For whom?” Aunt Tempy asked her know-it-all sister. “There are five of us if we exclude Joy.” She glanced to the settee where five-year-old Joy lay curled up sound asleep.
“Well, of course, we must exclude Joy, she’s only five,” Hannah Colson replied reasonably. “I wouldn’t mind getting married again. Surely, one of us can find a husband.”
“Within a month?” Mrs. Everett was incredulous. “That’s impossible.”